


like a fever ahead

by gaolcrowofmandos (imperialhuxness)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (or a flet), Anxiety, Established Relationship, M/M, Sharing a Bed, kinda sorta, more like established mutual feelings?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 22:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14146062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhuxness/pseuds/gaolcrowofmandos
Summary: The Company's first night in Lothlórien, Boromir confronts his doubts about the forest, the fear of ghosts he didn't know he had--and also his feelings for Legolas.--"Would you had sung something else.""What, somethingnotNimrodel's lay?" A smile tugs at Legolas' pretty lips. "Sorry. I know it can be a bit of an earworm."





	like a fever ahead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magictodestroy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magictodestroy/gifts).



> (i) A very happy birthday to nogoodngl! My friend, I had no idea just how many feelings I had about these two till I started writing this--hope I've done them justice :)
> 
> (ii) Title shamelessly pilfered from Sufjan Stevens' ‘Fourth of July.’

Boromir buries his fingers in the blankets, moving his arm as far from the edge of the flet as possible. His wrist has dropped off a few times as he’s tried and failed to get comfortable up here. At each slip, his stomach swoops with adrenalin, pulls him out of the fuzzy, half-real place on the edge of sleep. Not that that’s the only reason he’s still awake. Lothlórien, he’s decided, has none of Rivendell’s peace.

A white puff of mist forms above his lips as he exhales, ghastly white in the moonlit darkness. He pulls the blankets closer, resists the childish urge to pull them over his head. Below the tree, the stream ~~sings~~ ~~chatters~~ ~~babbles~~ raves. The wood is silent but for that, his own breathing, and that of his companions (Aragorn and Gimli across the flet, Legolas close to his side).

The sheer thinness of the gap between the Legolas’ body and his own is more than enough to keep him sleepless all on its own (one twitch of his finger, and he’d be stroking Legolas’ thigh; one inch further from the platform’s edge, and they’d be tangled together) (tangled together, again--all sweat and sighs and _stop-while-we’re-ahead_ ). But add to that the unnerving air of the forest itself, and for all his bone-tiredness, sleep is beyond him.

He exhales again--another cloud, swift to scatter--when Legolas’ voice covers the sound of the stream.

“Boromir?” The mist is finer above Legolas’ lips.

“I’m awake.”

“I know.” A laugh runs under his tone for a moment, then vanishes. “Well, what is it? You should be exhausted.”

Legolas’ hands are folded behind his head. He stares distantly into the _mallorn_ leaves sheltering the platform, their sallow undersides dull in the moonlight. He’s been in that strange elvish sleep--somewhere between death and dreaming--while the stars turn slowly, and the night wears on. Apparently, though, something’s broken his trance.

“I am,” Boromir murmurs. “It’s only that--” He stops abruptly--it’s too big to put into words.

“That what?”

Boromir sighs. It would be a fonder sound if he weren’t all tension.

But he’s been this way since passing the eaves of Lothlórien--mind and muscles primed against threats, alert with a soldier’s ear to every cracking twig, to the pattern of the Company’s footsteps, and to the mournful, living silence hanging over and between it all.

“Fine,” he says. “It’s that, well, that this kind of place...gives you tinnitus.”

“What do you mean?” Legolas has turned toward Boromir, propping his head up in his hand. He’s frowning. The expression isn’t unbecoming (none could be, on him), but such a lovely creature should never look so sad. (And certainly not over Boromir.)

Boromir’s quiet for a moment. Westron is inadequate for this. Still, he’ll try.

“Would you had sung something else,” he manages.

“What, something _not_ Nimrodel’s lay?” A smile tugs at Legolas’ pretty lips. “Sorry. I know it can be a bit of an earworm...”

“No.” It comes out more firmly than he intends. He winces, but Legolas doesn’t; still, he softens his tone. “I mean, that isn’t it. I can’t remember a single line of the song--I know that’s the way with elvish music. That isn’t it--” He’s repeating himself. Elegant. “It’s… it’s the sound of the stream, Legolas. I can’t--”

“Can’t what?” Legolas stretches out a hand, runs a delicate thumb along Boromir’s jawline. “I find it relaxing,” he says. “The rhythm of it.”

“So you don’t find the- the voice in it uncanny at all? I can’t unhear it.”

“Why should it be uncanny? The Lady can carry a tune.”

Boromir snorts. “Leave it to an Elf of Mirkwood not to be disturbed by a ghost singing.”

“A ghost?” Legolas echoes him, sounding amused. “That sounds awfully sinister for elvish country.”

_Doesn’t it just._ Boromir purses his lips and looks up.

Through the chinks between the _mallorn_ -leaves (little misshapen gaps like dark islands), stars scuttle the blackness of the sky. The gold of the leaves catches the light, and they glisten faintly, though they’re colorless in the night.

Legolas doesn’t understand.

For all Aragorn’s conciliatory words, all his assurances (which ultimately amount to nothing more than the blind faith that _elves are Good People_ ), Boromir can’t shake the aura of the place.

It would be unfair to say he finds it identical to the forceful waves of blinding, maddening darkness that emanate from the Nazgûl in battle (the waves that freeze the limbs of the strong, but leave the weak just mobile enough to fall on their own swords).

Lórien is different, certainly. Here, it’s a light radiating outward, rather than an air of being sucked into an abyss--but the net effect is the same. The abyss will suffocate you, but the light will burn you until there’s nothing left. The Nazgûl have their Rings to explain it--what is it here?

“It’s--” Boromir swallows, twists his fingers further into the blankets (this time, to keep them from shaking). “It’s only a bit familiar.”

Legolas frowns again. (Won’t he _stop_ that?) “If it’s any comfort,” he says, and he’s charmingly earnest, “not everyone believes it’s her houseless _fëa_. Common sense says it’s just a trick of the water on the stones.”

“And what do you believe?” Never mind that that isn’t the _point_. Never mind that if there’s something he’s afraid of here, it isn’t Nimrodel.

“It’s just a tale, Boromir. It isn’t a question of believe, at least not for us.”

“For ‘us’?”

“For the Elves. If it were a ghost, that wouldn’t change anything. After a few centuries, it stops mattering so much how _true_ these things are.”

Something twists in Boromir’s chest (the slow dagger of _stop-while-we’re-ahead_ , the reminder that this can never be). It’s easy to forget that Legolas is ancient. The moonlight catches in his hair.

Some impulsive part of Boromir wants to ask about Beren and Lúthien. If the story’s true. (If it matters.)

All he can manage is: “Shouldn’t it?”

Legolas’ eyes are bright, and the smile around his lips is mischievous. “I know you Men are prone to overthinking, but…” He shakes his head, probably fondly. “I’m starting to think the Dúnedain of the South are even worse about it than those of the North.”

“There is a reason Gondor’s renowned for its libraries...” Boromir laughs, hushed and breathy. Legolas’ gaze strays to the leaves again, and there’s something almost wistful in it. Boromir goes on: “But that isn’t what you mean.”

“I _mean_ we’re safe here. I _mean_ you should trust me.” Legolas pauses, doesn’t quite frown. “I _mean_ you should let a story be a story--that story, or whatever else they say about Lórien in your country--and get some sleep.”

“You don’t understand--” Boromir starts.

He’s cut off by the soft press of Legolas’ lips against his own. The contact is brief, but it still lights a burst of warmth in chest, against the bite of the winter air. Legolas pulls back, props himself up on his elbow again.

“Here,” he says,“let me drown her out.” He slips his hand into Boromir’s (all archer’s calluses and delicate bones). And he sings.

The woods--for a little while--take on a different sort of magic. 


End file.
